


Dreamers Often Lie

by QWERTYouAndMe



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Benvolio learns some interesting things about pasta, Brothers being good brothers, Drinking, Drugs, F/M, Hate to Love, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Mercutio learns to chill out, Murder-Suicide, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Tybalt learns to not be so mean, learning to love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-03-27 14:30:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13882845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QWERTYouAndMe/pseuds/QWERTYouAndMe
Summary: There's a charming feel to this place. The flagstones are warm, heated still by the late-evening Verona sunshine. Mercutio drags the flats of his palms across the smooth stone, fingers tracing patterns as he moves with a subtle, dignified grace. He raises an arm with slow, measured deliberateness and extends his fingers to try and touch the sky.orThe One Where Mercutio Is A Bit Of A Mess, Tybalt Really Needs To Talk To Someone, And Gay Culture Is Sitting On Things That Aren't Chairs





	1. 1: 19:47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it is day and Mercutio is found.

There's a charming feel to this place. The flagstones are warm, heated still by the late-evening Verona sunshine. Mercutio drags the flats of his palms across the smooth stone, fingers tracing patterns as he moves with a subtle, dignified grace. He raises an arm with slow, measured deliberateness and extends his fingers to try and touch the sky. There's a careful, gauged quality to his movements that make them look almost choreographed. He lets his eyes flutter closed as he tilts his head back and faces the sun. The warmth washes over his dark skin like the tide rushing over hot sand. In that moment, he feels something - something churning, decalescent; a mite uncomfortable but entirely expected and maybe even welcome. He could stand up and cry veritable thanks to the heavens. It has taken months, countless hours of empty, booming numbness, the soft clink of his metal rings against glass bottles, and now, finally, he's feeling  _something_.

  
He opens his eyes just as someone steps into his patch of sunlight and douses him in darkness again. The flame in his stomach is extinguished; it takes all he has not to curse. It's like he's just been punched in the gut. He squints up at the shadow, trying to decide whether they were someone he could shout at without eliciting offence. They're still blocking the light. He can feel irritation scratching at the back of his throat like a lungful of dry air. Before he can say anything, they speak.   
"My friend," he recognises the voice immediately as Benvolio. The relief that washes over him almost outweighs the anger he feels at being shrouded, still, in darkness. Mercutio scrambles to sit up straighter, the rough bricks of the wall he fell against scraping his back. He winces.

  
Benvolio stoops down and smiles gently. "Mercutio," He struggles for a second, words presenting themselves all at once on his tongue, but promptly dissolving into a mix of relief and anger and exasperation at his friend, who he had just spent hours looking for. Mercutio had just disappeared, entirely  _fucking disappeared_ , not even a note or a text or anything. Benvolio wants desperately to sit down right here on the sidewalk and wrap Mercutio in his arms and shout at him for being so stupid and worrying him sick like that- but no. It would make him upset. "Get up," Benvolio says after a long while. His voice wavers sickeningly. Mercutio just nods, swallowing thickly. He tries to muster a smile, but what comes out of it is more of a grimace. He looks up at his friend, all his anger dissolved, leaving just that same empty pit of numbness in his stomach. All of a sudden he has a desperate, undying urge to go home. He wants to run his fingers over every piece of furniture, close all the curtains and crawl into bed. He has a strange longing to touch the varnished wood of his bedpost, to trace the curves of the intricate carvings in the pole. There's a bottle of vodka in his bedside drawer that's only half empty. He can see on Benvolio's face, he's worried. He's scared. Mercutio knows that's his fault. His friend is smiling, but he sees right through it.  _Fake. Glass smile_ , Mercutio could shatter it with one word. And he almost does, almost parts his lips and says 'No' like an indignant child.  _Why?_  He would never want to hurt his friend. But right now he just feels vindictive, and against nobody in particular. He wants to hold a knife just to slash tires. The thought of doing something so horrible to Benvolio just for the sake of it makes him feel sick. He's bitter, petulant. He's being disgustingly childish for a man of almost twenty-three. 

  
His friend stands again, and for a terrifying moment looks like he's about to turn around and walk away. Mercutio wouldn't blame him. Time seems to slow in those few seconds, fear opening a pit in Mercutio's stomach. He realises now how fast his heart is beating, how rapidly his breath is coming. What if he opened his mouth by accident? What if he spoke like the idiot he was? He thinks back to the last hour, the past day, and realises with a sickening jolt of anxiety that he remembers barely any of it. The shouting match, with first his uncle - much to the dismay of his brother, who he makes a mental note to apologise profusely to when he gets home - then with his now ex-lover (a pretty lady with little personality and a passion for flowers), the long walk to the nearest store he could go to where nobody would recognise him, and then the half-drunken walk to where he sat now, surrounded by broken glass. He'd been drinking from a bottle, and it must have smashed when he fell, stumbling, struggling to stand, to see. It all blurs together in a drunken, hazy memory. His head hurts.

  
Everything is still for what seems like a long time. Mercutio extends a hand, hoping Benvolio won't notice the shaking in his fingers. Of course, he does, but he won't say anything about it. He won't say anything about any of this, just like he's never said anything about any of the other times this has happened. Before Benvolio moves, it seems to Mercutio that the wind stops blowing, the tides stop crashing on the shore, the very Earth ceases spinning on its axis for a second. The empty pit of fear in his stomach deepens. He wants to crawl inside it and not come out ever again. He knows Benvolio is going to turn away and leave him here. He just  _knows_. He drops his hand, rubbing the back of his neck anxiously. 

  
"Sorry," he mutters, voice hoarse from disuse. Benvolio shakes his head, and there's another long moment of stillness. They stare at each other, and for one fleeting, terrifying second, Benvolio contemplates leaving Mercutio there on the sidewalk and letting him make his own way home, just for being so  _selfish_  and  _inconsiderate_  and doing this shit _again_ because _really, Cutio? You’re going to pull this bullshit stunt **again**  when you know what happened last time? Don’t you  **ever**  fucking think of anyone else?  
_He thinks about leaving him here, for Valentine's sake, and for his own sake, and for the sake of all of their friends. But then he thinks of all the bad things that could happen;  _anyone_  could do  _anything_  to him here, and in this state he could barely fight them off. And then he feels despicable, so he reaches down and offers a hand. He could never leave him. Mercutio is his friend, whether he likes it or not, no matter how selfish or boisterous or _fucking infuriating_  he might be, Mercutio is his friend and Benvolio is disgustingly in love with him and there isn’t really much either of them can do.

 

Mercutio hoists himself shakily to his feet. He doesn't let go of Benvolio’s hand, holding him like a child clings to their mother, leaning on him heavy as they walk so his knees don't give entirely and send him face first into the concrete.


	2. 2: 23:19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it is night and Tybalt is lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey there some talk of suicide & self-harm in this chap it's quite brief but be safe please <3

There's a withdrawn feel to this place. As if the whole world moved on while this one clearing hit pause. Tybalt kicks the dirt, chipping a groove in the hard earth with the heel of his boot. He takes a long, deep breath. The smell of forest is all around; the trees shift gently, dancing in the nighttime breeze. The moon arcs high and full above his head, dousing the glade in a cool, gentle light. He exhales in a puff of steam, the cloud of his breath billowing out in front of him, dancing delicately in the air for one brief moment, and then evanescing just as quickly as it had appeared. The wind rushes once again through the glen and Tybalt shivers. He's reminded with a stinging certainty that the weather is starting, just, and only just, but still unquestionably, to turn. It won't be long until winter envelops the city in its iron clutch. It's seldom cold in winter, but he still yearns for summer to return. Long nights leave him laid awake; leave him to think, and to feel, for what feels like eternities. It doesn't often end well.

  
He looks to the sky and sighs deeply. A bird flits across his field of vision. He longs to join it; so high in the sky that nobody cares what you think about anything; you don't have to worry about who you are, or who people want you to be. He wants to light off the ground right here and fly away and never come back. But his dreams of escaping are just that: dreams. There's a sudden bitter taste in his mouth. He lights a cigarette. The flame flickers behind his hand, jumps and almost, but not quite, goes out. He wonders just how easy it would be to set this place on fire with him still inside it. Stand in the middle and watch the trees burn and crumble, walk slowly into the heart of the inferno and have it all go up in smoke.

  
He shakes his head. He can't keep having thoughts like this, because one of these days, they'll win. His sense of logic will crumble before his sense of cowardice and he'll drop the match on the ground or pull the trigger against his temple or plunge the blade into his stomach and it will all be over. Finished, done with, gone, settled, past.

  
But not today.

  
There's a rustling in the trees that makes him wince. He takes a long drag of his cigarette and waits. Nothing happens for a long time. He exhales. Nothing. It takes a while for him to shake the paranoia, and as he notices his heart racing even minutes later, he curses his family, curses the Montagues, curses the Capulets, curses this age-old feud.   
He hates the way he is. He hates that he's grown up to be the exact kind of person he feared as a child. For as long as he can remember he's been the 'strong one'. He's the older cousin, after all, and the stronger, and the boy. They never taught Juliet to fight. But Tybalt knew his way around a sword before he was ten. He wasn't allowed to play with any of the Montague children as a youngster, not even allowed to be civil if he passed one in the street. His sense of childlike innocence - or whatever of it was left - was broken, manipulated into a fierce love for a family he didn't want to belong in and a deep hatred for anyone who dared challenge him or any of his kin. Now, he is mean, malign; firey and quick-tempered. He's gained a reputation for himself as a man who will never back down. People are scared of him. For any minor disagreement he is expected to fight, and furthermore to win. If he lets down his guard for even one second he could be ridiculed, called a coward and a quitter and a fake. He can't have that.

  
The thoughts are blown from his head by the wind, which is picking up as the night wears on. Tybalt pulls his jacket around himself a little tighter and drops the butt of his cigarette onto the ground, crushing it with his heel.

 _Fuck the Montagues_ , he thinks to himself as he starts to make his way out of the clearing and toward the distant light of the city. _Fuck the Capulets. Fuck the Escaluses, while you're there_ , though, Tybalt supposes, he doesn't really have anything against them. But then again, he _has_ to have something against _everyone_ , doesn't he? Because he's Tybalt; cantankerous, violent, quick-tempered Tybalt Capulet, and he has to hate everyone.


	3. 3: 01:24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it is late and Valentine is scared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey yo lil warning there are a Lot Of drugs in this chapter dont tell the cops also be safe maybe skip this one if this effects you be safe friends

It is now twenty-four minutes past one in the morning. Mercutio lets himself in, still entirely buzzed from the high of a party, and slumps against the back wall of his bedroom. He closes his eyes, stretches out his arms and wiggles his fingers. Even as the buzz of the loud music and being surrounded by people wears off, the lingering high of whatever it was that he took still clings to him. 

He remembers the salty, bitter taste on his tongue, the rush of euphoria, feeling like he could do anything. He remembers talking and talking and talking, remembers feeling invincible. Then he remembers coming over too hot and stepping outside; sitting on the ground and closing his eyes. A sick, turning feeling in his stomach, his heart pounding in his chest. 

He feels sick, weak - like if he stood up he'd fall over. He needs a drink, but the kitchen is so far away and he definitely wouldn't make it down the stairs. He wonders if he should ask Valentine, but he's probably already asleep. Mercutio hopes he is. His phone buzzes in his pocket. It's yet another message from Benvolio. He's missed three calls. There are texts stacked up on his screen. Usually, he'd dismiss them all, but something compels him to read them.

_Benvolio:_

_Mercutio I know you've gone out tonight don't do anything dumb_

_I'm not kidding_

_Drink some water if you get drunk please_

_Don't pass out like last time because if I get a call from someone saying I was your ICE I won't come and get you_

_In fact yes I will but please just be safe_

_And no cocaine_

_I'm serious_

_No heroin either_

_Ok love you have fun_

Mercutio smiles. He types a half-assed reply, something along the lines of ' _I was safe thank you no cocaine no heroin all good love you xo'._ He's about to start the shameful half-walk half-crawl to the bathroom to inhale some water when there's a gentle, tentative knock on his door. 

"Hey, Val."

Valentine opens the door enough to peek in and Mercutio beckons him. His brother is the stock-photo of innocence, pyjamas too big, nose pink and hair messy. He doesn't look like his brother, but that's because he isn't. They aren't their uncle's nephews either. They're just a cut-and-paste family, like photos taken from magazines to fit into someone's scrapbook. Valentine brushes his orange hair away from his face and takes a few cautious steps towards his brother.

"I don't bite," Mercutio reminds him, and he practically slides the rest of the way down to the floor, enveloping his brother in a tight hug. They stay still like that for a long time, holding each other, and it's only when Valentine's shoulders start to shake that Mercutio realises he's crying. 

"Hey now!" He says, and Val looks up instantly, swiping at his eyes and nose with his sleeve. "What's the matter? Was it that boy again, cause I swear, I'll-"

"It's you!" His brother blurts, and they're both still for a moment. "It's you," he continues, "I was so worried! 'Cutio, you - you could have been dead! I didn't know where you'd gone or who you were with or-"

"Hey, hey hey." Mercutio cuts him off. He reaches out and sets a hand on his brother's pale cheek, thumbing away tears. He stares at the face in front of him, eight years his junior, thin, pale, covered cheek to cheek in freckles, eyes full of innocence. "Valentine. Don't worry about me, okay? You're just a kid. You should worry about video games or... books about wizards." Valentine shoves him playfully for that one. "I'm grown, okay? I can look after myself. I'll tell you where I'm going next time, though, if it makes you happy."

He nods. Mercutio is satisfied. 

"Now go back to bed."

"Play with me."

"On one of your nerd games? No way, kiddo. Go to sleep."

"Fine."

Mercutio pauses. Valentine gives him a final hug and gets up to leave. Just as he's at the door, Mercutio speaks again.

"Bring me a glass of water."

"No."

And with that, his brother is gone.


	4. 4: 23:29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which time passes and Mercutio has a thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long!

Mercutio hadn't been planning on even leaving the house tonight. He really hadn't. But he's been unable to focus on anything; can't touch pencil to paper, can barely put in a pair of headphones. There's a staticky, achy feeling in his head, tapping at his temples, scratching at his throat - he has to get _out, out, out,_ has to move, has to do something or he'll explode.  
"Where are you going?" his uncle asks as Mercutio swans into the kitchen and takes a juice box from the fridge.  
"On a walk," he offers - because he isn't wholly sure. That earns him a look, and he smiles innocently.  
"Look," he deadpans, "I have no money. People don't give out drugs for free. I'm just going for a walk. Tell Val I'm with Benvolio."  
"I'm not lying to your brother for your peace of mind." The comment is pointed, scathing, and hurts like a knife in the gut.  
"Fine," Mercutio takes his phone from his pocket and shakes it tauntingly. "I'll tell him myself." He can't stand the thought of starting an argument tonight - he'd probably collapse - so with that, he's out the door, battered purple sneakers scuffing the pavement. He counts his steps as he walks, mumbling numbers under his breath; just something to keep his brain in order so he doesn't start daydreaming and walk in front of a bus. There's no direction to his wandering, but somehow, as if he's on autopilot, he ends up in the park. He's spent many a night here, all different levels of fucked up. He could tour each place he'd vomited if you asked. There are a few patches of ground that are absolutely choice for sitting on, and so he makes his way to one: the walk from here to home is short and he needs some time to think. He's still holding the juice box that he'd taken from the kitchen. His uncle's words burn into his skin. He feels a pang of guilt over lying to Valentine; he knows his brother worries about him, too much, and saying he's with a friend - going to the movies instead of to a party, saying he's just sick instead of hung-over, that the bruises are from foolishness instead of fighting - it all helps to ease that anxiety just a little bit. If he can do anything to help his brother, he will, even if it means lying.  
One of the best places to sit in this park is under the old info booth. Mercutio can't remember a time when it was in use, and people seldom walk this way anymore - which is partly the reason it's such a good place to be. He slides down the wall and rests his chin on his knees.  
The wind is cold and biting, making him huddle into himself. He feels stupid for not bringing a jacket. He's always doing stupid shit like that. Stupid, stupid, stupid. One of these days he was going to do something stupid and get himself shot. More kids in Verona had guns than jobs. Yet again, his mind drifts back to Valentine. It would be so easy for him to get roped into the wrong crowd; accepting, quiet, submissive Valentine, forced to do other people's dirty work or risk getting beat up. The thought was terrifying. He'd fight a thousand shithead teenagers before he let them hurt his brother. But then, he knows, his uncle would get upset, because Mercutio 'should have been the bigger person' and 'needs to be more responsible'. It's infuriating. Terrifying. A cocktail of emotions rise in Mercutio's chest and break like a wave on the shore in the form of a choked sob. The noise is wrenching, rings in his ears and makes his head hurt.  
"Hey, what the fuck?"  
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Someone's heard him. This is it, he just knows it; he's overcome with a wave of certainty; visions of himself, dead and bloodied on the path, flash in his brain. This is it. This person is going to kill him. He's going to die at this man's hand right here in this park. He looks up, ready to stare his attacker in the eye. Nobody is looming over him with a knife or a gun. His head whips to the side, curls flying. And there, face pale and inches away from his own, is someone he never thought he'd get this close to. Snarky, irascible, firey: Tybalt Capulet.  
Mercutio wants to scream. He almost does, but he doesn't, just presses himself further back against the wall. "If you're going to shoot me, please just do it," he murmurs, squeezing his eyes shut. Tybalt almost laughs. Almost.  
"I'm not going to shoot you. I thought someone already had, to be honest."  
Mercutio chuckles nervously, eyes still closed. "What are you doing here?"  
Tybalt shifts so he's sitting next to him. "I could ask you the same thing." Mercutio just looks at him.  
"I asked you first."  
The Capulet shrugs, taking a drag from a cigarette Mercutio just noticed he was holding. "Getting a breath of fresh air." He exhales a mouthful of smoke. Mercutio laughs.  
"Obviously."  
"Okay, so what about you?" Tybalt looks at him. Mercutio realises he must look a mess; teary eyes, messy hair, all his piercings taken out. He wipes his face with a hand, and what's really happening slaps him in the face. He's having an actual conversation - casual as you like - with a man he's previously only shared snide comments and cutting remarks with. And he's actually being civil; as if they've been friends for years.  
"Just had to get out," Mercutio says finally, voice breaking. He shudders. Tybalt just nods, then he's silent for a long time. He looks almost pensive. And then, he stands up, holding his cigarette between his lips, and offers Mercutio a hand. He doesn't take it, stands up on his own and brushes himself off.  
They share a look, stand there for a long moment and just look at each other, and Mercutio's breath catches in his throat so he's the first to look away but _holy shit_. His heart is racing and he's a little shaky - because of the cold, that's all, he's just cold - and Tybalt Capulet has really nice eyes. He stares at the floor, lets the rush of shame and adrenaline flood over him, and then pushes past Tybalt and rushes away into the dark.  
****  
They meet again two days later. Mercutio is tucked into a booth at the cafe, Benvolio and Romeo opposite him. Romeo is rambling on and on about this girl he's met at a party and how he's going to marry her and how she's the most beautiful girl in the world. Benvolio is listening intently, picking at a waffle every now and then, and Mercutio is... well. He isn't looking at Tybalt, he _isn't_. He's just staring into space and Tybalt happens to be in exactly the space he's staring into. He looks good - well, he means. He looks well. He's wearing the prettiest leather jacket Mercutio has ever seen, hair all in a ponytail but the white streak at the front. His face has all the colour back in it, which is good. A weight off Mercutio's shoulders, because he'd been concerned, obviously. The other night, in the park, Tybalt had looked awfully pale, and now Mercutio knew he was fine he could rest easy again.  
"Hey," he hears from a million miles away, as if he's underwater. "Mercutio?" Romeo is snapping his fingers at him, and he shakes the cloud of thought away from his head. His friend follows his gaze and scoffs. "Tybalt? Really?"  
Mercutio looks away guiltily, caught red-handed. "N-No," he stammers, "No, I was just- I just zoned out. Sorry, what were we talking about?"  
There's a brief second where Romeo seems unconvinced, and he and Benvolio look at Mercutio like disbelieving parents. But then Romeo starts talking about this girl again and everything is back to normal. Mercutio listens for all of two minutes. Tybalt is looking at _him_  now. He's closed his book, and he's smiling. _Smiling_. Mercutio figures it would be rude not to go and have a conversation now, and so gets up to throw away his napkin, and just so happens to pass Tybalt by as he does so.  
"Fancy seeing you here," the Capulet crows, and Mercutio rolls his eyes.  
"I'd have thought that this place wasn't fancy enough for the likes of you," he shoots back, leaning with both elbows on Tybalt's table.  
Tybalt snorts, "Says you, with your fucking princely ancestors." Mercutio grins at him, and then he looks back down at his book again and the conversation is over. As Mercutio is walking back to his table after his visit to the trash can, Tybalt stops him with a hand on his wrist and presses something into his palm. He only looks at it once he sits back down again: it's a torn piece of notebook paper with a phone number scrawled on it. Mercutio looks at it, dumbfounded. He turns to look at Tybalt again, but he's gone.  
****  
The uncertainty eats away at him all afternoon. He just _has_ to send a text, has to know what was going through Tybalt's mind today.  
  
_[Mercutio: why did you give me your number]  
_  
God, he sounds so abrasive.  
Tybalt responds almost instantly.  
  
 _[Tybalt: Thought it was fate that we ran into each other again_  
 _Tybalt: Or something_  
 _Tybalt: I'm not sure fuck off delete it if you want]  
_  
Who would've thought Tybalt Capulet was a double-texter? Mercutio smiles.  
  
 _[Mercutio: fate?_  
 _Mercutio: lol we're starcrossed]  
_  
He knows that's a risky one. But good; let Tybalt reject him before he even says anything. Let Tybalt think he's making a move and get all flustered.  
  
 _[Tybalt: We're not lovers though_  
 _Tybalt: No offence but I'd rather just die]  
_  
That's fair.  
  
 _[Mercutio: that's just rude_  
 _Mercutio: we could be though ;)]  
_  
Yet another risk. Mercutio feels like an idiot, but he also doesn't care. So what if Tybalt thought worse of him? He was only joking, just playing around. That's what he does; he's a joker.  
  
 _[Tybalt: Hahaha fuck off]_  
 _[Mercutio: you couldn't have just said no?]_  
 _[Tybalt: Maybe I didn't mean no]_  
  
That one is certainly a shock. He chokes. This is bullshit; he's being bullshitted.  
  
 _[Mercutio: what_  
 _Mercutio: what are you insinuating_  
 _Mercutio: are you trying to ask me out because it isn't working]_  
  
His heart is racing. He's confused and excited and scared all at once.  
  
 _[Tybalt: No!_  
 _Tybalt: If you're not doing anything tomorrow though]_  
  
He doesn't reply on purpose. He _wants_  Tybalt to finish that sentence; dares him to have the nerve. This is no longer an interaction with innocent intentions: this is a game of one-upping each other. Good. Mercutio will marry this fucker if that's what he has to do to win.  
At last, Tybalt finishes his thought.  
  
 _[Tybalt: There's a bottle of red wine and a conversation with our names on them at my place]_  
  
Ha! Mercutio knows Tybalt won't expect him to say yes, so he 100% will. If the wine is good he's going to have to buy flowers or something. Maybe he should anyway.  
  
 _[Mercutio: are you asking me on a date_  
 _Mercutio: is that what this is]_  
  
Tybalt is quick to rise to his date bait.  
  
 _[Tybalt: No fuck off_  
 _Tybalt: Okay maybe kind of but still you and your dates can get fucked]_  
  
_Holy shit, character development_. Mercutio swallows. He isn't going to let himself catch feelings for Tybalt Capulet. That just won't end well.  
  
 _[Tybalt: I don't want to hold your stupid hand or touch your bullshit fucking hair or anything gross like that._  
 _Tybalt: It's just wine, ok?]_  
  
Mercutio smiles again, shaking his head. This is dumb. They're dumb. Tybalt is especially dumb, and they're going to drink wine together tomorrow. It's not a date, just wine. But tomorrow they're seeing each other on a not-date and Mercutio might just have to buy flowers.  
  
[Mercutio: so defensive ;)  
Mercutio: see you tomorrow]  
****  
Mercutio doesn't even _like_ red wine. He doesn't like wine at all! He doesn't like Tybalt either, but here he is, drinking wine in his house, on his really nice sofa, and talking about spaghetti.  
"I'm just saying, Tibs, it's messy and hard to eat without looking like a squid. I don't like it."  
Tybalt grimaces into his glass. "If you call me Tibs one more time I will slit your throat." Mercutio grins at him.  
"Can you even reach?" Tybalt glares daggers. Mercutio shrugs, "Do it, pussy." He takes another sip and gestures with the glass. "See what I did there? Pussy? Because-"  
"Yes, I get it!" Tybalt snaps, sour-faced. Mercutio beams at him. The fucker's got his hair in a bun. A bun! He looks so casual, Mercutio feels like a pompous prick for putting on a button down.  
"Relax! Hey, are you so angry all the time because you're so close to Satan?" He knows he's pushing the right buttons when Tybalt jabs him in the ribs with his elbow. He yelps with laughter.  
"You're just tall," Tybalt whines, "Mister _'Look at me, I'm Mercutio, I'm six foot six and I think I'm better than everyone because I'm tall.'_ "  
Mercutio laughs. "You're four foot nine!"  
Tybalt glares again, venom dripping from his tone. "I am not. I'm five one; if you're going to insult me, do it properly." Mercutio sets his glass down and shrugs, running a hand through his curls. His tongue plays with his lip ring idly. There's quiet. He _definitely_ isn't staring at Tybalt's mouth, stained red like a vampire. He has a tongue stud, Mercutio has noticed it one too many times. He wonders if it hurt. He wonders how it'd feel to kiss him with that thing. Cold, strange. He shivers, shakes his head. Don't think like that. It isn't like he hasn't thought of it before, but that was in the quiet of his room and beneath the cloak of night - when everyone was asleep and he was free to bury his face in his pillow, face bright red with shame.  
Tybalt has definitely caught on that he's staring. Mercutio swallows hard.  
"S-Sorry-"  
"Don't worry about it..." He trails off. A muscle in his throat works. "Don't let what I'm about to do make you think I don't still hate your guts."  
"Wh-"  
He's cut off by Tybalt's mouth on his own. He's kissing him, actually _kissing_ Tybalt Capulet on the mouth. Tybalt's hands pull at the front of Mercutio's shirt, pull him closer, deeper. It feels like he's drowning, suffocating, fighting for breath, but in the best possible way. He'd suffocate right here if he could, drown in the taste of wine on Tybalt's lips and the smell of his cologne and the feeling of his hands holding his shirt.  
Tybalt is the one who pulls away, blue eyes looking into Mercutio's brown ones for a moment. Then, he lets go and grimaces. "That was fucking disgusting," Tybalt says, sitting up straight and wiping his palms on his thighs. Mercutio blinks in shock, then breaks into a grin.  
"I know. Do it again."  
****  
They've seen each other at least once a week for the past three months. It's routine at this point: Tybalt sends a text - [If you have any plans tonight, cancel them.] - and Mercutio will reply all too eagerly - [you are always all of my plans]. Tybalt will turn up at the door in that goddamned leather jacket and probably some eyeliner. They'll steal away upstairs; lips touching before they even close the door. They don't 'date', that isn't what this is. They're not 'dating'. They're just friends who kiss a bit. Mostly they stay in: illegally stream a movie and drink some cheap beer on Mercutio's battered couch. Sometimes, there was dinner, but not so much anymore after an incident with some instant noodles and the fire department.  
It's late. They're awkwardly sprawled across each other on Mercutio's bed, on top of the covers, still wearingtheir shoes.  
Tybalt is curled in a ball, eyes closed; _more like prince of kittens_ , Mercutio thinks, smiling.  
Mercutio is staring straight forward, not daring to look down. He doesn't know if Tybalt is awake, doesn't even know if he's still alive. He can't hear him breathing, feel him moving, not even feel the heat coming off him. He resembles a corpse. It's unsettling.  
Mercutio's heart is racing. He feels high. His cheeks are red, head spinning; what is this? Beside him, Tybalt shifts, and his cold feet press against Mercutio's bare calves.  
That's when he realises.  
He's complete, irrevocably, unfalteringly in love. He's fallen in love with him. He's fallen in love with Tybalt Capulet and there's nothing he can do about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have NO IDEA if that was any good bc its late and im sick and so tired but here have it take it i can't be bothered looking at it anymore


	5. 5: 18:00

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it is evening and feelings are shared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dedicated to my favourite melon

It has to be said, the Montagues have a very sturdy table. Mercutio has seen the Capulets' table - he's even sat on it. But that's not a sturdy table. It wobbles and creaks and was probably very expensive. But the Montagues have a sturdy table, the kind of table you could sit on and feel no qualms. It was a good table for sitting on, and so that's exactly what Mercutio is doing.  
He's looking down at his phone when he hears the door open. Usually, he would get off the table and go to meet his friends at the door, but today is different. Today, he almost hopes they don't find him. He's come here with a purpose - let himself in, because he had the keys; said hello to Mr and Mrs Montague, and then sat on the table until Romeo and Benvolio came back. He's been trying to craft a perfect way to tell them about his recent - ahem - realisation. He knows they won't take too kindly to it, and for different reasons. He can picture Romeo's face: disgusted, confused. _A Capulet? Tybalt? Really?_  
And then there's Benvolio: hurt, confused, stung. And that was Mercutio's fault: while he and Tybalt had been seeing one another, they had agreed they weren't exclusive - they weren't anything, they just hooked up sometimes and fucked about and occasionally had dinner together. Nothing more. And Mercutio had to admit that he'd led Benvolio on a little.  
He's always known the Montague had feelings for him, and in the past few months, he's tried to reciprocate them - mostly to try and conceal or even replace his growing feelings for Tybalt. It wasn't working. They've been known to spend an evening together every once in a while; never anything fancier than the same cheap beer and bad movies that he shared with Tybalt. Sometimes, he kissed him. More often than not, he didn't want to.  
He doesn't want to face them, wants to leave now, run away and not come back. But they'll know he's here, they'll have seen his car. Dread starts to rise in his stomach, tie knots in his throat. It's cutting off his air, he can't breathe.  
Romeo opens the door. He's grinning like an idiot, looking like he's just been dragged backwards through a hedge.  
"Oh my God, Mercutio!" He says before Mercutio can even say hello. "Let me tell you about the night I've had."  
Benvolio trails in after him, smiling weakly and shaking his head. "Hey 'Cutio."  
Mercutio smiles, returning the hug Romeo throws at him. "So, tell me everything!" He demands, and Romeo launches off into a story about this girl he's in love with and how they _t_ _otally got it on last night, dude!_.  
"But, get this!" His face falls. "She's a Capulet. If my dad found out, he'd _kill_ me."  
Romeo's in love with a Capulet?  
"Juliet?" Mercutio asks, without thinking, and Romeo nods enthusiastically - then stops.  
"Wait," he says, "how do you know her?" He looks betrayed. The panic once again rises in Mercutio's throat and he sucks in a breath.  
"I've been seeing her cousin for three months and I think I'm in love with him and I don't really know what to do-!" He blurts, face bright red. Romeo stands stock still, mouth agape.  
"Tybalt? You've been sleeping with Tybalt!" Romeo laughs. Mercutio turns redder, if that's possible. He opens his mouth to deny, but Romeo cuts him off. "And you're in love with him? _In love_ in love?" Mercutio does not reply. Romeo laughs again. "Why are you telling me? Have you told him? Do you date, are you dating? Does he even do dates? Or do you just watch him brood in the corner? Is he your boyfriend? Are you boyfriends?" He pauses, then gasps, "He's so short, I bet you could pick him up and throw him like a football!"  
At this point, Benvolio steps in, holding Romeo back like a father calming his son. "I'm happy for you," he says, and Mercutio can't look him in the eyes. The brief glance he gets feels like a bullet in the chest; hurt, betrayed, confused.  
"I haven't told him," Mercutio says after a long while. Romeo starts physically bouncing in place, brimming with excitement.  
"You _absolutely have to, right now!_ "  
"If you want to," Benvolio cuts in, and shoots Romeo a look. The younger Montague stands still again, but he's still grinning like a Cheshire cat. Mercutio nods, smile growing on his face.  
They're on Benvolio's bedroom floor constructing a plan for most of the afternoon.  
****  
"I can't cook, I'm gay!"  
"Well, if it's escaped your notice, I'm also gay, so by that logic neither can I!"  
Mercutio sighs, entirely exasperated. "Ben, you're a gay that can cook because you can't drive. Look, will you please just help me?" He sets down the recipe book he's holding and fixes Benvolio with a pair of puppy-dog eyes. He's trying to be romantic: Tybalt is coming tonight and if he's going to tell him about his feelings then he's going to be extra about it. So he's making dinner, or rather, Benvolio is.  
"Fine! Okay, fine, I'll help you."  
They buy all the ingredients, including the most pasta Mercutio has ever seen, and Benvolio starts cooking almost as soon as they get home. Mercutio, as much as he tries to help, is mostly useless, and so goes upstairs to stare at his closet and get frustrated because he doesn't know what to wear.  
His bedroom door is ajar. He distinctly remembers leaving it closed. It's fine, he thinks, it was just the cat. Just to make sure that his uncle hadn't searched the place, though, he checks his drawer. The things inside are all present and accounted for, but they're mixed up like they've just been shaken around by a toddler, or a drunk, or a drunk toddler. The sight kindles dread in his stomach, but he can't place why. For now, maybe it's just best to ignore it.  
"Mercutio!" Benvolio calls up the stairs, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. "Tybalt's here!"  
Mercutio slams the drawer shut and puts on a semblance of put-togetherness. He throws his jacket to the floor and looks at himself in the mirror briefly. His own reflection makes him anxious. He decides to just leave it.  
"Coming!"  
****  
_[Benvolio: Wow pasta gets bigger when you boil it what a wild concept._  
_Benvolio: Mercutio I know you're probably kissing or holding hands or something right now but I'd like to inform you that we have too much pasta for you two and me_  
_Benvolio: I'll eat mine quietly in the kitchen don't worry I won't intrude_  
_Benvolio: Do your brother or uncle or cat like pasta? Can I feed this to your cat?_  
_Benvolio: I won't do that_  
_Benvolio: Fuck me dead this is way too much pasta.]_

  
Mercutio laughs at his phone and stands up. The movie credits roll down his TV screen.  
"What's happened?" Tybalt asks from halfway down the hallway. Mercutio pads into the bathroom and shakes his head, snaking his hands onto Tybalt's waist.  
"Nothing. Are you washing that liner off?"  
Tybalt turns around to shoot him a glare. "I cried and it ran. If you tell anyone, I'll kill you."  
"Whatever you say. Dinner?"  
"Absolutely."  
They go downstairs, and Mercutio is very careful not to let Tybalt see Benvolio hiding in the kitchen.  
"Wish me luck," he whispers as he takes the two, now cold, plates into the next room. Benvolio smiles at him, but does not.  
Tybalt eats like he hasn't seen food in a week.  
"This is fucking amazing."  
Mercutio blushes, even though he barely even looked at the recipe. "Thanks, it's nothing really." There's silence for a long time, not even the TV to fill the air. This is as good a time as any.  
"Can I tell you something?"  
Tybalt nods, looking at him intently. Instantly Mercutio chokes.  
"We- Because-" He falls silent for a long time. Tybalt sets a hand on his arm, their eyes meeting. "I love you!" Mercutio says finally, face flushing.  
The air is instantly heavy with regret.  
"You what?" Tybalt looks like he's going to scream. He feels the same kind of dread he did in the park all that time ago, as if Tybalt is going to kill him. The Capulet sets his plate aside, and Mercutio is convinced he's going to leave and never come back. But he doesn't.  
He kisses him.  
It feels like it did the first time, and hasn't since - gentle, caring, like silk over his lips. Tybalt's hands are balled in the front of Mercutio's shirt, pulling him forward - deeper, closer.  
There is no cursing or shame as they pull apart. Their eyes meet once again and Tybalt smiles. Their lips meet again, and there's not even a speck of violence or malice or intent to hurt. There's nothing there at all except an unspoken promise and the damning of two young lives to an early grave.


	6. 6: 04:56

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some talk of suicide in this chapter be careful please!

Mercutio can't sleep. Tybalt and Benvolio are both long gone, leaving his bed cold and the air dead. He's staring at the ceiling, a little ball of nerves, because he could've sworn that from out in the hallway earlier he'd heard crying. It was so late that he could call it early soon. Valentine should be asleep. Mercutio hopes he is.  
Still, he stands up, unsteady but sure, and creeps across the hallway. Gently, he knocks on Valentine's door. When he receives no answer, he opens it anyway.  
In the dark, the blue walls look black. The floor is messy, strewn with stuffed animals and stray clothes. He takes care not to stand on anything. He perches carefully on the edge of his brother's bed. The sound of crying fills the air.  
"Valentine?"  
Silence.  
"Val, c'mon." Mercutio watches as he peeks out from under the covers. He looks fucking wrecked. "Valentine- oh God, come here."  
Valentine seems to hesitate, but then he launches himself at Mercutio and sobs into his shoulder. He's taken aback for a moment, but then he wraps his arms around his brother and holds him tight.  
"Hey, hey, who did this?"  
Valentine doesn't answer, just shakes his head. Mercutio rubs a small circle on his back, hushing him quietly in some attempt to calm him down.  
After what feels like an age, Valentine takes a deep breath and sits up.  
"Wanna tell me what happened?"  
"Who's Tybalt?"  
Mercutio sighs, "Valentine-"  
"Why was he here?"  
"Val-"  
"Tell me!" Valentine looks genuinely concerned. Mercutio feels a stab of guilt. Did he do this? It took so little to make Val anxious, it was perfectly conceivable that this whole thing was his doing.  
"He's... a friend. I know he looks scary, but he's fine."  
Valentine looks uncertain. But he swallows thickly and nods.  
"Was that what had you so worried?"  
For a second, Valentine considers lying. He really, really doesn't want to make this any worse than it already is. And if he tells Mercutio...  
"No."  
His brother stirs. He's no good at reading him: what does that mean?  
"Tell me what happened."  
Valentine swallows dread, then shakes his head. Mercutio looks at him. Pleading. He holds fast.  
"Fine," Mercutio says. There's silence; prickly, heated, scary silence. Valentine wants to cry again. He closes his eyes, lets his brother hold him for just a moment, and thinks.  
He was only three when they died. A freak accident, they said. His mother had dropped her cigarette and boom, it was all gone. He didn't believe it.  
He remembers the woman he lived with for eleven years. She just kept him for the money. Valentina, she used to call him, run a cold finger down his cheek. He couldn't cook, but he learned fast. He had to, or he wouldn't have dinner. She gambled the house away one day and then he was gone, shipped back to the orphanage without any of his things.  
So there he was; new people, new clothes, new world. And then through came the families, but none of them even looked Valentine's way, until the Escaluses. Then everything was new again, new city, new family, new house. He had a brother now; a father who wasn't a father. He'd always insisted he was their uncle. Valentine was never sure why.  
He'd always been quiet at school; had a small circle of friends but never many, never put his hand up in class, never did outstanding work or said anything particularly clever. He was a background character in everyone else's lives.  
Sometimes he wondered if anybody would notice or care if he just disappeared one day. Too many times he'd stared down the razor in the bathroom, or the bottle of pills in the medicine cabinet, or the coil of rope he'd bought once but been too scared to use. He tried not to think about how his family would feel when they found him, but then the voice in his head said they wouldn't care either.  
And he believed it.  
****  
The silence is booming.  
"Do you love him?" Valentine says out of nowhere, and Mercutio chuckles.  
"Tybalt? Never you mind."  
Val smiles. "Is he nice to you?"  
Mercutio laughs softly, patting Valentine gently between the shoulder blades. "Yeah. You can't always tell, but he's nice. He just... shows it differently. "  
Valentine laughs at that, and God if it isn't a relief to see.  
Mercutio has seen tears on his brother more often recently. He hates it: he cares so deeply about Valentine, the thought that he's hurting is awful to think about. He was such a happy kid, always laughing, making jokes, doing something to bring a little light to someone's world. Now, it was like his light was turned out; as if someone cut the cords with a pair of scissors. Mercutio's just running around trying to find some electrical tape.  
He wants to voice his worry, but Valentine will feel bad.  
"Get to sleep, okay, kiddo?" He says after a long time, and Valentine pulls away from him.  
"Yeah. Okay, yeah."  
Mercutio takes his hand and squeezes it gently. "Love you, you know that, right?"  
"Yeah- Love you too."  
Then, with that, Mercutio stands up and leaves. Just like that, the dark swallows Valentine up again and he's on his own. 


	7. 7: 21:50

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehehehe ten to ten  
> theres some abuse and homophobic language in this chapter, and then a lil death, be safe

The dark is starting to make a home all around them, sneaking in through the windows and stealing day away. The air is silent, filled only with the occasional word uttered between kisses. Tybalt's kiss is like the ocean, Mercutio decides, deep and terrifying, but fascinating and beautiful.  
His icy fingers trail languidly down Tybalt's back. The Capulet shivers. They're all entangled, a mess of limbs, so you can't tell where one ends and the other begins. Slowly, Tybalt laces his hand in Mercutio's hair, not tugging, not even holding, just resting. Everything except them in the world is still, immaterial, negligible. Like they're all that matters.  
But they're not. They're the flap of the butterfly's wings, not the hurricane. The hurricane is coming, though, and all it takes is for the butterfly to move its wings once more.  
It's as if they're in their own little bubble, the only things in the world. Mercutio buries his face into the space between Tybalt's neck and his shoulder. The Capulet smiles.  
The lights flicker and then turn on. The door is open. Tybalt is away from Mercutio in seconds. He's frozen, small and defensive at the other end of the bed. If you didn't know him, you wouldn't know he was scared. But Mercutio does, and Tybalt is definitely scared. Before him stands a man that Mercutio assumes is his father; a hulking, ursine man. He looks like a caricature of himself, all over too exaggerated. He looms over Tybalt - the scariest person Mercutio knows - with such a confidence that it almost all seems like an act. Like any second they'll turn around and laugh at him.  
"Disgusting." He hisses, right in Tybalt's face. Tybalt doesn't look at him. "You filthy, insolent boy; a burden for this house to bear! You think you can slip past me that easily? Acting like a queer in my own _house!_ " His voice raises steadily, and now he's shouting at full force. Tybalt avoids his gaze. And then, this man does something that - while Mercutio has done it himself on more than one occasion - he never thought another person would dare to do.  
He strikes Tybalt across the cheek.  
The noise is sickening, like the crack of a whip on the back of an ill-trained lion. Mercutio stares in shock. Tybalt doesn't look angry or upset, just scared. Tiny. This man is probably Mercutio's size, or near enough, and here he is hitting Tybalt? He looks tiny, helpless, like a kitten about to be eaten by a bear.  
"Don't you ever _listen?_ Will you never _learn?_ Find yourself the right woman. Settle down. Get your sins and error _out of my house!_ Oh, I dread to think, boy, I really do. No more of this, do you understand me?" Somehow the fact that his voice has mellowed is even scarier. When Tybalt doesn't reply he grabs him with one hand by the front of the shirt and pulls their faces close. "Do you understand me?"  
Tybalt nods.  
He lets go. Tybalt's glaring now, and of course he catches it and turns back around. Mercutio has to close his eyes as he goes to strike him again. Tybalt lets out a choked sob.  
" _Pathetic._ Get yourself to church on Sunday and do some serious thinking, or you'll be gone; out, cold, _dead in the streets_ for all that I care!"  
And then, with that, he's gone.  
The silence in the room is booming. In the light everything looks harsh; the walls are glaring white, the dark outside a stark contrast. Raindrops are falling gently onto the window pane. The noise is drowned out by the quiet. There's blood on Tybalt's face.  
"Tybalt?" he asks, careful, almost cautious. Tybalt doesn't reply for a long time, just stares into space, like he's broken, like he's lost. Mercutio moves closer, setting a gentle hand on his shoulder.  
He jerks away.  
"Don't touch me - leave me alone... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have dragged you into this."  
Mercutio shakes his head. "What are you saying? It's not your fault."  
"But it is," Tybalt's voice breaks. "I should have been more careful, I knew he was at home, and-" Those blue eyes are welling up with tears. Mercutio feels his heart breaking.  
"Hey," he says gently. Tybalt looks at him. "Come on. Let's get out of here, yeah? Grab some clothes, stay with me for a while."  
There's a pause.  
"How long?"  
"As long as you want. Until that cut on your cheek heals."  
Tybalt reaches up and touches it, as if he's noticing it for the first time. He seems shocked when his fingers come away red. Then, slowly, he nods. Doesn't move, though.  
Mercutio presses a soft kiss to his temple and picks up his own bag from the floor.  
"Do you want me to put this shirt in there?" He asks after a quiet moment of putting Tybalt's clothes into his bag. The Capulet jumps like he's just come out of a trance.  
"Wh- Oh. Okay."  
Mercutio swallows. He feels sick. Tybalt seems genuinely shaken up by this, and why wouldn't he be. The fact that people like Tybalt's father exist in the world makes him feel sick. The fact that, were he not here, that probably wouldn't have happened makes him feel sick. He tucks his own sweatshirt into the bag, suspiciously folded and in Tybalt's drawer.  
"Okay," He murmurs as he closes the backpack, and is about to continue when Tybalt says "Wait."  
"What is it?"  
He's still for a long time, but then picks up the thin blanket folded on the end of the bed and holds it out hesitantly.  
Mercutio just smiles at him and puts it with the rest.  
They climb out of the window, as they so often do, and sneak around to Mercutio's car. Tybalt is quiet the whole drive.  
When they get there, Tybalt is in a trance again. Mercutio all but shakes him out of it. They sit for a good half hour in the kitchen, Mercutio talking because he hates the quiet, and trying to patch up Tybalt's cheek. He brings some water and something to eat, because Tybalt's bled down onto his shirt, quite a lot actually, and he hasn't really noticed. Mercutio has only seen him bleed once before, and it wasn't very much, so he's worried, especially because he's so spaced out.  
He gets a bit more life in him when they get upstairs, thankfully. Mercutio turns on the TV, just for a bit of a distraction, and they curl up together in his bed. For a long time, they're quiet, and Mercutio is pretty sure Tybalt cries, but he doesn't ask. And then, the protagonist of the movie they're watching shoots a guy using a frying pan, and Tybalt laughs.  
It's music; a symphony composed just for Mercutio to hear. It's amazing.  
Turns out, this movie is way dumber than they thought. Try as they might, they can't entirely scrub together a plot, but it has something to do with monkey-human hybrids and any seriousness it may have had beforehand is entirely erased by the lead actor's voice.  
They lay like that for a long time, making fun of whatever's going on on the screen. But then, the movie ends, and they're left to talk again.  
It's Mercutio who speaks first. "I'm really sorry that your dad's like that."  
Tybalt scoffs, leaning on him heavy. "That is _not_ my dad." Mercutio just looks at him, willing him on if he so pleases. "They went within a month of each other. Doesn't seem possible, but it's true. My mom left one day and then three days later there she was on the news, dead. Car at the bottom of a reservoir. Then three weeks later, there goes my dad, dead in the night from some sort of problem with his liver. Drank himself dead. So here I am, in Verona with my aunt and uncle, at ten years old. I fucking hate it here, 'Cutio. As soon as I finish college, I'm gone."  
Mercutio kisses his temple. He's quiet for a second, then an idea hatches in his mind. "Let's run away."  
"I'm sorry-?"  
"Let's go, I mean it!" He turns so they're facing each other. "Tomorrow, let's just leave. Hop a city, go to Mantua. I have a friend there who we could probably stay with, till we could find a place together. Apartments over there are dirt cheap anyway, if you don't mind living in the same building as someone who cooks meth."  
Tybalt shakes his head, and Mercutio swallows thickly. But then a smile breaks on his face."Do you think we really could?"  
"Of course. Me and you, just fall off the map. Send them a Christmas card from our own place that just says 'wish you were here!' Except we don't, it's a lie! Brilliant!"  
He's laughing again now, and Mercutio swears it's the most beautiful thing. All the stars are in his lover's smile.  
"Okay."  
"Really?"  
Tybalt's grinning ear to ear now, shaking his head but then nodding, wrapping Mercutio in a hug that tackles him back onto the mattress.  
He'll take that as a yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone said i talk about valentine too much and to that person i say FUUUUUCK YOUUUU  
> i'll talk about valentine all the hell i want  
> in fact  
> the next chapter?  
> all valentine  
> viva la revolution  
> i also didn't proofread this because i'm tired and it's 3 am and also i hate life  
> leave me alone i crave death


	8. 8: 03:18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Valentine has had enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yowza i warned yall  
> there is graphic talk of suicide in this chapter please be safe.

This is it.  
No more.  
He doesn't want to do it anymore; doesn't want to deal with this weight on his shoulders, doesn't want to feel his bones slowly cracking, splintering under the pressure. And now, they're broken, and he lies useless on the ground.  
He's useless.  
Valentine Escalus has decided something. Today will be the day that he dies.   
Under the harsh, blue-white lights of the bathroom, his face looks sallow and bleak; the blue of his eyes is dull, murky, an almost greyish colour.  
 _Mercutio, freshly seventeen and just out of high school, lifts him up high in the air. Valentine is squealing, shrieking with laughter. His brother smiles widely and hugs him tight._  
 _"You've got the whole sky in your eyes, Valentine."_  
His orange hair is limp, not so much growing as hanging from his head. He pushes it back. It's greasy, unwashed. He contemplates taking a shower before he does all of this, even turns on the water as weakly as possible to avoid making much noise. But, he can't bear to unbutton his shirt; can't bear to look at himself.   
His cheeks are pale and hollow; he looks like a skeleton with a mask of skin. He stares at the effigy of himself in the mirror. It isn't really him. As he opens the cabinet, it slips away.  
He can't find the bottle. There was a bottle of painkillers in here, he's sure of it. He has half the cabinet out before he gets tired of looking. No matter. He's heard that overdose hurts.   
Well then, what if not the pills? A razor would be nice; quick, simple, effective. To sit in the bath and let his white shirt soak up his blood, so when somebody finds him he looks like he's been dipped neatly in red and hung out to dry. He casts about: there's little that could be of much use to him at all.   
He has rope in his dresser, with the knot neatly tied and coiled, just waiting for the right moment. But he's heard that to hang yourself, you need to get up high enough to break your neck as you fall, or you hang there and suffocate.  
He's going to puke.  
The knife, then, he bargains, might be safe. He looks at the prominent, blue veins on his wrists and swallows.  
Down, down, avoid the creaky step, down. He barely touches the floor as he goes. The blade glints in the half-light. It's fucking taunting him.   
The door of his bedroom creaks. He winces. He knows everyone is asleep.  
This is really it, he's decided. He's going to die. Should he leave a note? Say thank you? Say goodbye?  
He sits at his desk and waits for words to come to him. They don't. Maybe it's better to die silently.  
Finally, after what seems like hours of waiting, he touches pen to paper.  
 _I'm sorry._  
 _I love you._  
Fine.  
This is it.  
No more.  
No more fucking about, no more pussying out, no more being too scared, this is it.  
Valentine lays back against his unmade sheets and presses the sharp of the blade against his already scratched wrist.  
This is it.  
Where the knife goes, pain follows, and blood follows pain in what seems like an excessive process for something that should be over so quickly. It hurts, and his head feels dizzy after a while, but he doesn't care. He just about hears the knife hit the floor above the pounding of his blood in his ears.  
He truly is sorry, but it had to be this way.


	9. 9:4:13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey yet more suicide in this chapter pls be safe  
> also this is probably a lot of waffle bc i wrote it really quickly i'm sorry if it's bad

_There is a woman standing in front of him wearing a blue and red. Her skin is ghostly pale, her eyes dark pits bored into her skull. She is the only thing he can see for miles and miles. She scares him deeply, not just because of the way she is looking at him but because it looks like she's glowing yellow, pure, radiant yellow. She laughs._  
 _"Don't go with him," she says, and he stumbles backwards. "He's like a shark," she states matter-of-factly. "needs to keep moving or else he'll die. He's going to say you're lying, but you know you're not. We both do, don't we? He needs to keep moving," she spirals her hands in front of him. They seem to be glowing orange."Or he'll **d** **ie**."_  
 _What was once a peaceful yellow hue that surrounded this woman has turned into a vicious, painful_ _red_. _She looms over him like a lion ready to slaughter its prey. She opens her mouth, and she's speaking words, but all that comes out is a screech._  
 _"Do not go with him. He's a shark, Tybalt! If he stops moving, he'll die-"_

  
Tybalt's eyes snap open in a frenzy. He sits bolt upright, staring at the wall, desperately trying to process the images in his head before they disappear forever. He's breathing heavy, fighting to get enough air into his lungs. He feels sick.  
"Tyb?" Mercutio whispers sleepily beside him. He looks at the clock. 4:13 am. Tybalt swallows the sticky sweet taste of bile on his tongue and puts on a smile.   
"Hey."  
Mercutio props himself up on one elbow and squints at him. "Baby, it's early. What's wrong?" His speech is still slurred by sleep. Tybalt feels bad for waking him up.  
"Nothing. I'm fine."  
"Evidently. C'mere."  
Tybalt doesn't feel like they're close enough yet for 'c'mere'. He wants to vomit. He should be telling Mercutio not to 'c'mere' him, and then getting up and going home.  
But no.  
He'd regret that.  
He lies down, staring at the ceiling. Mercutio's arms snake around him and pull him close. He's warm, Tybalt notices, and soft in all the places you would want to be soft. But his arms are strong and his hold is tight, and there's something unseen pulling at Tybalt's insides begging him to open his mouth.  
"I had a dream about a woman," he says, unsteady and quiet. Mercutio says nothing. "She kept saying--" He panics. He can't tell Mercutio what she actually said, because he'd know that Tybalt thought it and he'd be hurt. "She was just saying all this cryptic shit and then- I think she turned into the devil?" He tries to laugh it off, but Mercutio doesn't seem convinced. "I don't know. It just - kinda scared me, I guess."  
Still, his lover doesn't reply. He presses a light kiss into the crease of his neck and shoulder and leaves it at that.

****

Tybalt had left at 5:30 to pack a bag and look present.  
Both Romeo and Benvolio aren't returning his calls or messages.  
It seems the world has fallen dead at his feet, and he hates it.  
Mercutio shoves clothes into backpacks, and sends final texts to people he'll never see again. He feels wrong, as if he's about to do a terrible thing and not even know it.  
He sits cross-legged on his bed once he can't bear to pack his things anymore. He really wants to get high, or drunk, even though yes, it's 8:15 in the morning and he's fucking jumping cities today and- he has to tell Valentine.  
The plan was to leave without telling anyone, but Valentine is different. Valentine needs to know because if Mercutio just disappeared it would eat his brother up from the inside out.  
He swallows the lump in his throat as he approaches his brother's door. He knocks, but there's no answer. He opens it anyway.  
"Fuck, no, Val."  
Mercutio staggers backwards, his gorge rising. This isn't real. He closes his eyes, but it's far too late for that now. He's seen it; the stark red of Valentine's bedsheets, the sickening glint of the blade, the sickly sweet stench of blood and death.  
He walks as if on autopilot towards his brother, shaking his head like some sort of cliche. He'd never really believed what he'd seen in the movies until right now, because here is Valentine, bloody, bruised and tear-streaked, on his bed like some sort of effigy, like a sacrifice to some blood-hungry God who tears little children away, and here he is, just standing there uselessly and shaking his head like some sort of robot.  
"Valentine," he murmurs after what seems like an age, reaching out and touching his brother's cold, soft cheek.  
Valentine could've done so much. He was so clever, and so kind, and he could light up a room without trying, and he was - is, Mercutio reminds himself, is, because Valentine's not dead. He can't be. It's just another one of his impractical jokes, any minute he's going to step out from behind the curtain and say _'fooled you!'._  
So Mercutio waits.  
And waits.  
And waits, drowning in his own silence and the energy radiating off his brother.   
But nothing happens.  
He throws himself down onto Valentine's bed and sobs. He doesn't know how long he stays there, for an hour or a day or a year, just crying and crying and crying, because he could've done something to stop this. He just knows it; he could've saves his baby brother if he' just paid a little more attention. He knew something was wrong, he knew from the way Valentine locked himself away in his room and how he refused to talk to anyone, and how he wasn't eating right and how he could hear him crying through the paper-thin walls, but he just never tried. He never cared enough to even fucking ask.  
This is it. The straw that breaks the camel's back. Mercutio utters a thousand silent apologies in his head, to Valentine and to Tybalt and to Benvolio and Romeo, to Juliet who he barely knew and his uncle who barely knew him.

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._

  
He's crying as he stumbles away from his brother, tasting bile, and into the bathroom, fumbling with the medicine cabinet. There are painkillers here, he knows there are. There's enough pain in his chest to last him a lifetime worth of pills. He knows pills hurt you, he knows they make you fade out slowly, slowly, _slowly._ Good. He deserves to suffer. He deserves to suffer because he let Valentine suffer and now his brother is dead.  
He finds the bottle. Not enough. He swallows them all anyway.  
There's probably more in his dresser, or he hopes so, and he locks his bedroom door as he goes in. Nobody can stop him: this is what he has to do.  
He finds another similar bottle in his drawer, not the same but they'd do, and he swallows them with a mouthful of alcohol. He doesn't care. His head is reeling, spinning like a waltzer or a Ferris wheel, except the fun is gone; all the happy music has stopped. Now he just feels sick and dizzy and afraid of heights.   
Mercutio curls up in the middle of his bed and cries into the comforter that still smells of Tybalt. He murmurs a thousand apologies to Tybalt as he lets sleep pull him under, or death, and he doesn't care, he doesn't care, he doesn't care.  
Let him die, let him suffer, let his brains fry and his insides rot, because he let Valentine suffer, and he let Valentine die; his brother's soul is just a little way above his head, waiting for his to keep him company, and he's _coming, Val, I'm coming._


	10. 10:17:56

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyy huge tw for suicide in this chapter

There's golden light streaming in through the slats of Mercutio's blinds, but it isn't that which makes him open his eyes. There's a dog barking down the street and another dog barking back a reply, but that isn't what makes him open his eyes. There's a ringing in his ears that's growing into a screeching that's growing into a roar, but that isn't what makes him open his eyes.  
The thing that makes him open his eyes is the pain that shoots through his stomach that makes it feel as if he'd just been shot. He struggles to sit up, wiping tears from his eyes and vomit from his mouth. On his bedside table, his phone vibrates. The pain is indescribable.  
He remembers in a haze everything that happened; Valentine and the pills and the alcohol. His stomach turns. It feels like a million spears are being driven through his abdomen.  
He grabs his phone with sweaty, shaky hands. He has missed calls and texts and Twitter notifications, from Romeo and Benvolio and Tybalt and sweet Juliet. He ignores them all. The time flashes in his face but he can't read it. The sun is going down.  
He should be with Tybalt by now.  
It takes all he has to change his shirt and haul himself up. He slings his bag on his shoulder and braces himself against the wall as he walks, stumbling down the stairs. The house is still empty, and he almost doesn't want to leave it behind, because as he leaves the house behind he leaves his brother and his uncle and most of his life.  
He's embittered by the fact that he won't see Valentine's funeral. He won't get to say a proper goodbye. He checks he has his lighter in his pocket. It will have to do.  
He sits in the drive of his car for a long time with his sweaty, hot forehead on the steering wheel, breathing ragged. Tears are leaking out of the corners of his eyes involuntarily, and as much as he wants to keep calm he can't because he's probably going to die but he doesn't know when and he's hurting.  
He should call Tybalt. Tell him everything. Explain. Apologise.   
But he can't.  
It's definitely dangerous for him to be driving, but he's damn well doing it. He gets to the gas station and parks where nobody can see him. His stomach is turning somersaults and he feels like he's going to be sick again. He isn't sure how long he sits there in his car willing himself not to vomit.  
The register attendant is definitely worried about him, but he buys a bunch of shitty flowers and is on his way. _For Valentine._ If he can't die gracefully at least he can look it.  
He wants to scream, to cry, to do something, anything. He thinks about the life waiting for him in Mantua and almost takes out his phone to call 911. But he figures it's too late now. He knows enough about painkiller overdose from being 16 and suicidal to be sure that if he's taken into hospital his only options will be a slow and painful death or the meticulous wait for a transplant that won't come, and then a lengthy stay in a psych ward, and he isn't going back there, no way, so he sits in his car for the better part of 30 minutes and cries. He cries for Valentine and he cries for himself and he cries for his and Tybalt's nonexistent Mantuan life. He cries and cries and feels pathetic, because he's brought this on himself and there's nothing he can do now but wait for death to come.  
The sky is pink when he resurfaces enough to will himself to start driving again. Focusing on the road takes his mind off the hot knives in his stomach. He's aiming for Tybalt's house, for the Capulets' house, so he can collapse on their doorstep and explain what he's done, but he gets halfway and has to stop. The pain in his stomach is searing and only getting worse, and he pulls over just in time for him to vomit all over himself and bursts into tears. He can see the park from here, and with the sun setting behind it, it looks nice. The moment of peace is brief and interrupted by agony. Mercutio doubles over and his head hits the steering wheel again. He curses.   
Dread and doom feel imminent, like at any moment he could give out and die, and so he decides he has to call Tybalt.  
The phone rings once, twice, and then he answers.  
"Mercutio?"  
"Tyb? L-Listen- I'm at the- the park? I've done something- ah- something bad, Tyb, I need you to come here."  
****  
Tybalt is breaking the speed limit. He doesn't care. He's getting to Mercutio if he has to run through a crowd of people to do it. The streetlights are just turning on and they glare in his face as he drives, pressing the accelerator just a little more. He has to get to Mercutio.  
The gates of the park rise slowly into view and tears already spring to his eyes. He can see the silhouette of his lover against the darkening sky and even from twenty feet away it doesn't look good.  
He's barely topped his car before he's out and running, sprinting towards Mercutio's battered Chevy and throwing open the doors.  
"Mercutio? Look at me, what happened?"  
The stench of vomit is horrible, and Tybalt bites his tongue. Mercutio looks a wreck, face streaked with tears, eyes dull, broken.  
"Valentine," he starts, through choked sobs and deep breaths. "He- He killed himself-" Mercutio pauses, fighting for air, and just manages to push Tybalt away as he leans out of the car and heaves onto the pavement. Tybalt curses, reaching up feebly to feel his forehead, as if that's going to do something.   
"I'm going to die, Tybalt," Mercutio says weakly, and Tybalt knows it's true. "I'm gonna die here or- or- if they take me to hospital I'll die there all sterilized and drugged and-" he reaches out and grabs onto whatever he can, and he's either fighting another wave of nausea or another wave of pain, Tybalt can't decide. There's silence as he thinks over exactly what the fuck to do in this situation, then Mercutio's voice rings out in the clear night air.  
"I don't wanna die."  
It takes everything, every ounce of willpower and strength and years of training that Tybalt has to keep all the emotions that rush into his chest at that statement inside.  
He takes a deep breath.  
"Okay. Stand up."  
Mercutio looks at him like he's insane.  
"Stand up, come on. Come with me."  
He doesn't want to do this, but he has to. He feels like a fake, luring Mercutio into a false sense of security and then pulling a fast one on him and calling an ambulance. Maybe this will be the thing that breaks him years from now: he betrayed his college boyfriend and now he's irreparable. But those years will come as they do, if they come at all.  
Mercutio stands up. Tybalt takes off his jacket - formerly Mercutio's jacket, and hands it to him. It covers up the worst of the vomit stains.   
"Come on," his voice is wavering, "We're just going for a little walk, yeah?  
****  
Mercutio can't walk. He can barely stand, but Tybalt supports him as they go, slow and unsteady. He feels stupid, reckless and dumb and like some sort of fool. The dark is setting in around them again and this time it just feels cold and vast and ceaseless.  
All he can think about is the pain: the hurt and the torment and what he deserves. His head is foggy, circling thoughts of Valentine and the flowers and how stupid he is and Tybalt.   
They've stopped walking. Tybalt is talking but he can't hear. He knows this place. The park. The info booth. He knows it.   
"Sit down," Tybalt urges, and Mercutio backs against the booth and collapses on the floor.   
Everything feels fake down here. As if the whole world is underwater. He rests his chin on his knees. Tybalt is beside him, close, and he can feel him thinking, but he can't read him. He's probably sad and upset and angry, but Mercutio can't tell. The wind is cold and biting, and he huddles into himself.  
He can't tell how long they wait there, still, tense, silent, before it happens.  
It's as if a hand has pushed into his stomach, grabbed a fistful of his organs and twisted. He wants to scream. He does scream. Tybalt tries to hush him, tries anything to calm him down but nothing works; he's crying and messy and nothing feels real. His limbs don't feel like his limbs.   
He's half-laid on the ground, looking up at Tybalt. He can see the dull glow of his phone screen in his hand, see his fingers punching in the number.  
"No-" he murmurs, reaches out and pushes it away.   
It falls to the ground and shatters.  
Tybalt just looks at him. Mercutio still can't read him. He says nothing. There is silence for a long time.  
This isn't fair. Mercutio wants to cry, but he can't. He wants to scream and yell veritable curses to the heavens, but he can't. He can just hold onto Tybalt when the pain gets worse and wish death would come faster.  
****  
Tybalt can't keep up this front much longer. Mercutio is hurting and he can see that, and he can't do anything.  
So he cries.  
Finally, after a day of anxiety and the events of this evening, he gives into it all and cries. He tries not to make a scene, or too much noise, in case he draws attention to them. But he cries. And he cries. And time slips away from him for a while.  
Mercutio almost hauls himself up by Tybalt's shoulders, his fingers holding so tight that there's bound to be bruises there. He lets out the worst noise Tybalt has ever heard, a mix of a broken, choked sob and a gasp. He shakes his head, opens his mouth to speak one too many times.  
"I can't-" he whispers, and Tybalt just shakes his head.  
"I can't, I can't, Tybalt-" He's trying to breathe but he can't get the air in, trying to speak but he can't get the words out. "Kill me."  
"No-" The Capulet responds before he's even finished his sentence. "No way, Mercutio, no. I'm not-"  
"Please! Please, fuck, it hurts, Tybalt. It _h_ _urts_."  
Tears rise in Tybalt's eyes. The reality of what's happening hits him. Mercutio's dying. "No, no, I can't, 'Cutio, no - wh-what about Mantua? Huh? What about getting our place and being alone and- and- Mercutio, please-"  
"I'm dying, Tybalt!" Mercutio shouts, and he almost sounds angry, and Tybalt flinches. "I'm dying and it hurts and if you- please. Just one bullet, right there." He taps himself between the eyebrows.  
Tybalt waits. Mercutio says no more. Tybalt just stares at him.  
And then he plants a kiss on his lover's forehead and stands up, leaving him there on the cold concrete floor, hurting and slowly fading out.  
****  
The floor is cold. Mercutio is hot. He wants to take off the jacket but he can't lift his arms above his head.  
He wants Tybalt back.  
***  
The gun is cold and heavy in Tybalt's hand. He's emptied it of all but two bullets. One for Mercutio, and one left for him.  
He's going to kill someone. He's going to kill someone and then he's going to kill himself. For those seconds before the bullet takes the back of his skull off he's going to have Mercutio's blood on his hands. He's going to be a murderer.  
He's almost pathetic, laid there on the ground covered in tears and vomit. Tybalt lays the gun on the floor between them and sits down. Mercutio looks at it desperately, then looks at him.  
"Are you sure you want me to do this?" Tybalt asks softly, and Mercutio nods weakly.  
"Please," he rasps, voice small and hoarse and helpless. "It hurts."  
Tybalt strokes his sweaty hair away from his forehead. "I know, love. Close your eyes. Think of me, around. Think-" he takes a deep and shaky breath. He's desperately fighting the tears but they come anyway. He's going to kill the man he loves and then he's going to kill himself. He's going to be a murderer. "Think about Mantua."  
Mercutio has his eyes closed, lips moving silently. Tybalt takes the gun and stands up. His hands are sweaty and shaking.  
"Don't tell me," Mercutio whispers, and Tybalt swallows thickly, nodding. "Just do it."  
"Okay. Okay. I love you so much, Mercutio. I love you and-" He breathes in shakily. "I'm sorry it had to be like this."  
"I'm sorry I did this to us. I'm sorry that I fucked this all up." Mercutio's crying as he speaks, eyes still screwed shut, and Tybalt feels his heart break. He closes his eyes and shakes his head.  
"You didn't. You didn't, don't worry. I love you, Mercutio."  
"I love you too, Tybalt."  
He closes his eyes and takes one last deep breath.  
And then he pulls the trigger.  
The gunshot rings in his ears and he drops the pistol, stumbling backwards and vomiting onto the path. He just killed a man. He just killed the man he loved.   
His gorge rises; he can't bear to look at Mercutio.  
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I love you, I'm sorry."  
He scrambles for the gun again and cocks it, holding the cold barrel against his temple.  
"I'm sorry," He's crying again, and he could throw up but he doesn't, he just sighs a deep sigh and swears a final prayer before he shoots, apologising and thanking and hoping to any God or higher power or government satellites that could have been listening that he finds his love again in the afterlife, if there even is an afterlife.  
He doesn't even think, he just does it.  
Pulls the trigger.  
Bang.  
There's an oddly charming feel to this place. The flagstones are warm with blood, the sky is dark as coal and the air is heavy and hot.  
People seldom walk this way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thats it  
> you can shut the book now.

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaaaaaa constructive criticism would be much appreciated thankyou :D


End file.
